Long Cut into Poems
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Humdumpty was an analyst, a Cambridge Ph.D.,
A noted bio-atomist, whatever that might be.
Indeed, from earliest childhood it was his single aim
To analyze no matter what might enter his domain.
He analyzed his father's watch and next the neighbour's cat.
Ah! Little more was seen or heard of Felix after that.
Astounding learned pedagogues, hard pressed to keep his pace,
Humdumpty grew up daily--in knowledge if not grace.
And then at university his intellectual power
Decimated Einstein and the works of Schopenhauer.
With ease that was amazing he romped a Double First,
And yet, for all his learning, nought quenched his burning thirst.
Despite the storm, and tumult that marked his inner life,
Humdumpty found the leisure to woo--and win--a wife.
He loved her--Oh! so dearly, his idol and his joy!
Alack! How oft our dearest 'tis we ourselves destroy.
One day in stormy weather he raised his eyes above,
And posed himself the riddle: "What constitutes her love?"
One night--to angels' weeping--the dark thought seized his mind:
"By scalpel and analysis the answer I shall find."
Full soon she took a sleeping draught, and when the time was due,
He set about his gruesome task, inspired by love so true.
How tenderly, how lovingly, he cut into her heart.
With what profound emotion he set his spouse apart.
To isolate that molecule in which all love resides
He scrutinized each corpuscle, and did much else besides.
All data was computerized, and ere a while had passed,
A reasonable hypothesis was imminent at last.
How tantalizing is the truth, how far--and yet, how near!
'Twas in the corner of his eye--and then would disappear.
It dawned at last upon him, his efforts would prove vain,
Unless he somehow managed to join her up again.
Of every art that served this end he tried the whole range through.
He first tried biophysics--and his last resort was glue.
Alas, alas, Humdumpty! There is a fateful law:
Some things men set asunder no mortal can restore.
They did not need a hangman or Madame Guillotine.
Before another week had passed, he died of bitter spleen.
Now some say he's in Heaven, and others, he's in Hell.
I'm not a theologian, it's difficult to tell.
For sure, he cut his dear wife up, and who would call that right?
But was it not his quest for truth that brought about his plight?
Un-revelling Rivalry
Who am I to speak of historical rivalry I cannot contest
all the clever myriad truths conjectures and refutations
about the two masters the two foes with huge presence
when history acclaim appreciation is subjective personal
up front and back stage up all artistic ins downs and outs
My parachute helicopter mind wants to give first prize to
to Leonardo for free flying inventive rebellious mind and
he helped me with anatomy dissecting corpses and all I can
still smell fragrant formalin preserving miraculous tissues
when I had to learn those medical terms and cut into flesh
But then Michelangelo shares my middle name though I am
no angel but who can proclaim that I may never be biased in
associate vein in quite shallow post-post-modernist anticipation
when the great man also painted in narrative personification
Deluge Drunken Noah Creation of Adam Madonna and Child
Okay family man that I am I resort to holidays with my children
and am so sad to admit that we never so far made it to Rome
sacrilegious or not but how could I pass The Last Judgement
when seeing Sistine Chapel’s altar would alter the verdict
of Ignoramus with leisure time spent on Normandy’s beaches
Well now I recall that trip to Euro Disney when we walked
from Tour Eiffel to the Louvre where I temporarily lost my
little boy Moritz and almost my temper when the devious villain
hid from the artwork was sulking because the Mona Lisa was
so small and he was so tiny could not see amongst masses of
tourists the smile and metaphorical writing on canvas and wall
So in all earnest while giving a toss I could-would have to resort
to tossing a coin in regards to whom why how and whenever the
rivals could measure up to history my history my story and life
Even and because of my whacky literal critical stance and my
stanzas bordering on mockery heresy subtle subjectification
you must remember that I have one tongue and two cheeks
And while seemingly ridiculing an important theme of historical
prominence I still bow in awe admiration yet lodge my own angle
perspective whereas the two grand master’s problem was not
what I would behold in my eyes and my soul in full radiance but
that they chose not to consider each others contrasting beauty
as compliment complement Leonardo Angelo Michel Da Vinci
01st September 2016
In the 80's I lived in Anchorage Alaska. You could go anywhere and catch salmon till your arms fell off. I would drive for hours to fish in completely desolate (of people) lakes. There were several lakes that were so clear you could see the trout swimming two hundred feet down (they were 8 to 28 inches long) you could see the bottom of every lake just by peering over the edge of the boat. After several years of catching these trout that were as long as your arm, I checked the map for new and more challenging lakes. I found a lake Southwest of Wasilla that had "fingers" cut into one side of it. Each one was 50 by 2,000 foot long, obviously man made. I didn't bring my boat and planed to fish these "fingers" from the bank.
I had snapped my Fly pole running through the trees and was tired from all the the frantic running. I rigged up my Casting pole and walked out to where the water was just above my knees, between two trees 20 feet apart. 15 min went by and I figured I better change lure. My right foot had sunk past my ankle in the silt and I pulled hard to get unstuck. My left foot sunk deeper. I had been in this situation before and kept working to get at least one foot unstuck.
Almost an hour went by and the water was to my waist, I had mud to my calves and the waders were like a second skin. I couldn't move, I tried everything. By now the water was up to my armpits. I saw my cooler float by and then my tackle box (and needless to say, my life too) That's when I started yelling help. There was no body on these lakes and I knew it. I went under water and tried to dig my legs free, only to run out of air! I came up yelling help. I yelled only to hear my echos of help, I had a wife and two daughters to live for. I was done.
That's when I heard a calm voice say "catch this knife" I looked over and it was an old man in his 80's. I told him I was stuck real bad- he said, "I know, cut em off" and tossed me a knife- It was a perfect ten foot toss and I caught it! I went under water and sliced my waders from the hip to the thigh (240 bucks worth)- when I came up again he was reaching out his walking stick to pull me out. It was 5 feet too short. I yelled at him to come closer, "just grab hold of the tree branch there and I could reach it" He shook his head and said again "cut em off" and then he walked away behind the trees.
I slowly open the old, rusty cemetery gate that groans,
it squeaks and creaks in the still night,
the trees are swaying dark shadows,
reaching out for me-
I walk
a path
strewn with fallen leaves,
they crunch beneath my feet echoing.
A sudden wind takes my long raven hair,
it whirls around me like a dark velvet, warm cloak.
The headstones go on for miles in rows and rows,
names engraved, cut into cold stone,
voices of those gone whisper softly,
but I journey on.
I seek
a stone
that bears my name.
Statues of angels turn and weep,
their tears wash me like gentle falling rain,
in the distance a mound of red roses already decaying.
This my resting place- I should be dwelling in peace.
I lived a short life and died young,
and in death I am beautiful,
but I linger still.
I was
a poet.
I seek the poems,
I wrote my words in blood,
in journals my many poems still exist,
words written that should have been buried with me.
it was my wish . . .
________________________
Writer's Statement:
The first thing you will notice about my poetry is that I like to write my
stanza's anisometric, that is, composed of unequal lengths. I also like
automatic writing without conscious control. I have the ability to put
myself into the poem, I am right there with the words as I am creating.
My poems tend to dwell on the sadder and more morbid aspects of life.
As the early romantic poets like to do in their poetry, I also like to write
in the school of drowned-in-tears style. Often my poetry is mournful and
takes the reader to a cemetery, a graveyard. So, I am also writing in
the style of the 18th century poets whose melancholy words dwelled in
darkness. This is known as the school of graveyard poetry.
In this poem, I am the ghost of a girl, a poet, who died young. She
cannot rest in peace because her poetry is lost to her in death. It was
suppose to be buried with her but was not. So now she will spend eternity
searching for her poems that dwells in the realm of the living.
__________________________
January 14, 2017
9/20/16
I am Caroline Foster.
I am fifteen-years-old.
I am shortish.
I am rather thin.
I am intelligent I guess.
I am oblivious.
I am weird.
I am childish.
I am different and not in a good way.
I am the girl who sits in the front of the class because I am expected to.
I am the young actress who can only find her voice through being someone else.
I am the nerd people only become friends with so I can do their homework.
I am an encyclopedia, Google, and a dictionary all rolled in one.
I am an outsider.
I am the one who will never be accepted because of my social awkwardness.
I am and will never be anything more than a textbook.
I am only a tool.
I am scarred from the knives I have cut into my own wrists.
I am depression, a dark room with the light switch torn out.
I am anxiety that screams with deafening volume just to keep me chained to the ground.
I am the one who’s supposed to know all the answers.
I am expected to be a perfect little robot who should never step out of line.
I am afraid to accept myself for who I am because of fear of the judgement and rejection of others.
I am the girl who is taken advantage of because they know I’m too scared to say “no.”
I am terrified of failure and not meeting the highest of standards.
I am hideous.
I am disgusting.
I am so ugly that to attract a guy I have to hide behind pounds of makeup.
I am sick and tired of being labeled by my skin, religion, GPA, cup size, and my face.
I am done hiding in the shadows and letting the opinions of others control me.
I am waiting every day for it to be my last just so I can get away from all the hate.
I am suicide ready to happen.
But, I am beautiful.
But, I am unique.
But, I am still that wide-eyed dreamer who just wants to write.
But, I am a writer of stories that could change the life of one.
But, I am not what others think of me
I am not just another face among billions of others.
I am chosen.
I am a daughter of God.
I am here for a reason.
I am me and still discovering what being me means.
And I am okay with that.
I am telling you to rip off the history and stereotypes that you have been forced to lug around for so long.
I am showing that no matter who you are, there is still light at the end of the tunnel.
I am Caroline Foster.
Who are you?
Wonder not
if my thoughts are thrilled and twisted
daily and deeply by the albums of your ways,
I succumb severely to the impulse of imminent interplay
so dumb with joy, grateful for the fusion of our fevers,
I've never let you leave my mind,
you haven't finished eating your portion of my heart,
there is so much more for you, still in my chest, on my eyes,
I am your rare happiness,
that bare beast of a woman's best distress,
trigger your storm sirens with a single drop of Goodbye,
serve you with the most sensational sadness,
replenish your youth with an admiration that won't die,
knowing that I am not a makeshift man, nor a loyalty within a lie,
that I'll punish your pulse with peppered pleasure
because I can, because I must,
pull your hair just to hear those breaths beg for big flares,
treat the smooth and sweet lascerations of love's lament
butterfly cut into the surface of a girl's search for sincerity,
we get intoxicated on performance of personality,
buzzed beautifully from believing in the addiction of adoration's affliction,
We know we can handle one another's hurt
as warriors bleed hard because they sell themselves the sacrafice,
that we can process history with humor by breaking the shame of blame,
synthesize epiphany with sympathy to nourish symphonies of Divinity
we realize that intensity is the regal implement of our tournament,
I like it when you tell me the tough truths,
that you want to be loved for more than one reason,
that being respected in segments isn't enough,
that he will never be me,
that words can outlast the disappointment of distance,
that the world overwhelms you when you most expect,
that sometimes you'd rather be a heart attack
before being a pretty song or a favorite memory,
I understand your need for absolute affection, absolute attention,
lets allow our love to be confusing, dazzling, on the verge of villainy,
it isn't steady as a sleeping heart beat
or ready for celebration like a " gee wiz " graduation,
it is our Love, and its undefinably volatile and lovely,
Your cosmos gives a question that feeds one answer,
that love is ours, safe in the arms of Armageddon,
I remember the ember of our future
spazing on the hearth of fresh earth,
don't ever miss me Babe, just keep lovin me -
J.A.B.
Prelude to Psalm 23
Nothing could have been more pleasing to me
Than walking on this bed of soft green grass
Until feeling the gentle slope beneath my feet
And seeing the blue hue of the sky above
Thinking that if I didn’t ease forward just one step more before turning round
And didn’t keep my eyes closed and my breath held in
That the moment would somehow be made less perfect
Than I wanted it to be.
It wasn't the view but the sight
Of my young daughter’s face that made me wonder
Until feeling the distance between us grow
While losing my balance and falling backwards.
It was then that I saw You Lord reaching towards me.
The tug on my sleeve was just enough to sway my balance forward.
Your look of concern was more than enough to let me know that you cared about Me more than anyone I’d ever met because...
(Psalm 23) The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside still waters;
he restores my soul.
He leads me in right paths for his name’s sake.
Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
I fear no evil;
for You are with me
your rod and your staff - they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.
by Jean McLoughlin
A Note from the Author
This poem was written about a dream I had one night.
Perhaps it's not obvious in the poem but in my dream I was walking up a hill which, unbeknownst to me, had a steep ravine cut into it.
The moment I realised that I was about to fall to my death my life passed before my eyes.
My biggest concern was for my baby daughter, who had followed me.
I didn't want to leave her on her own and knew that she would most certainly fall over the edge too.
I can still see the rocks below and the stones built into the edge of the cliff.
When I looked into my Savior's face I could see more love and understanding than there had been in any of my previous relationships.
This was the moment I knew that He was the one for me and I awoke with this feeling and a deeper understanding of Psalm 23.
Praise the Lord!
Thy arms are opened
to embrace you
to hear them sing
ah-song of love and peace
who calms the shores
to create beaches Lord and King
held in high esteem
the sweetness of
a world ah-plenty
the world should know
how sweet the taste
Love lifted me
to great esteems
to make me smile
to make me sing
I taste the sweet
and glorious things
double fired plantains
pan fried and pressed into a muffin pan
filled with strips of pig ears in a tangy spicy sauce
topped with a cilantro green sauce
and toasted sesame seeds
5&1/2 cups of cooked pig ears
cut into stips
and boiled in
3 quarts of water
1 orange halved and squeezed
3 peppercorns
4 smashed cloves garlic
1 medium onion diced
5 tablespoons of vinegar
3 tablespoons of salt
3 sugar
2 star anise
cook for 1 hour until fork tender
drain and add to a bowl
2 Tablespoons of cayenne pepper
1/4 olive oil
1/4 lemon juice
4 tablespoons of garlic
1/2 teaspoon of fish stock
3 tablespoons of shredded coconut
2 tablespoons of honey
1 tablespoon of molasses
1 Tablespoon of spiced Rum
1?3 cup diced onions
5 tablespoons of toasted sesame seeds
1 teaspoon of celery seeds
2 tablespoon of soy sauce
1/4 cup of diced apples
1/4 cup of diced candied ginger
fry plantains golden brown
press plantains in muffin pan
to create cups fill with pig ears
and bake 15 minutes at 350 degrees
1/2 cup mayonnaise
3 tablespoons lemon juice
1 ?4 cup of chopped cilantro
1 teaspoon of jalapeno pepper
2 tablespoons of crushed garlic
3 teaspoon vinegar
What God has Claned you must not call common!
Imagine if seeds of trees hatched to Tree-lings.
Seedlings with two trunk legs and root feet
Bodies like humans covered in bark
Arm branches with finger shoots and leaves
Head with eyes, nose, ears and mouth
Like those cut into tree trunks eons ago.
Meet the Ents, pre-tree creatures,
Half-man, half-tree, destined to mature into trees.
When they are about two-score rings old and more
Their tired trunks grow roots
And Ents lose their human-like features and become just trees.
Ents can walk to establish new Ent colonies.
Ent armies can mobilize and fight against loggers
Who want to hack down their grand parents the trees.
You can stroll with an Ent on long walks through the forest
To hear their wonderful stories and legends.
Ents can talk and sing their arbor songs.
They also have ears and can hear what you say to them.
So you can talk to the trees, give them a hug
And say how much you love them.
But watch out, as Ents can be very argumentative,
Especially about how the forests are being cleared and
Roads cut through their midst, and even global warming.
Ents are too big and messy with leaf drop to invite into your home.
But they love a picnic in the open.
They hate smoke, which they fear, and so barbecues are out.
They love going to the beach where they can dip their toes and trunks.
The mangroves taught them how to swim and they love to bathe and swim about,
In the cool seawater and play with the seaweed and kelp.
They float well, and love to jump in a river and get carried downstream in the current.
They love a game of ring-around-rosy and even a maypole game.
Ents are are also very good and gentle with kids.
They love to have kids climb and play in their branches.
They are avid experts at swinging and swirling kids around their trunks.
So next time you wander through a forest
Call out "Ent, Ents can You Hear Me?"
Gently tap on trunks as you go
And don't be surprised if you hear the leaves rustle
Or hear a grumble, and see Ent eyes pop open in slits in the bark.
Ents love a chat and hug and a cuddle, and a scratch in their bark
Even when they get lazy and get rooted to the ground.
The Ents are there, you just need to believe in them and find them.
Underneath the light of the full moon, a she-creature
Prowls through the thickets wild.
Stalking quietly waiting for the canvas city to
Slumber into a lazy sleep, ever closer silent sleek black
Paws sneak forward ready to draw its vengeance.
She is the curse of the gypsies, made from the
Blood of a crimson star, which split apart and fell
To earth below.
Two small shards burnt through the forest canopy,
And cut deeply into the earth's soil itself.
Creations ground zero, for rebirth leaving behind
Two lunar figures, one of light, the other as
Dark as pitch, identical twins of a solar eclipse.
Spin did the wheels of the gypsy’s caravan, stopping nearby,
Finding these orphan’s of the skies, they became
Foundling's of the nomad’s tribe.
Oh beauty of the heavens did glow in the light
Of the bright child, as darkness’s black emptiness,
So burned within her ebony sister kindred.
These solar babies grew in power year by year,
Until thirteen summers and nights had passed by,
One day a great storm came to the tented world
Of the gypsies, flashing thunder and lightning,
Burned and tore at the traveling village.
The dark child crouched in shadows corner,
But the child of light emerged willing to sacrifice
Her life for those whom had saved hers.
Ascending upwards to appease the heavens
Itself the storm God, welcomed and excepted
This child of lights sacrifice.
But the child of darkness was angered, and
Took her revenge on the gypsies, vowing to
Leave none alive.
So she follows them, stalking where ever their
Wheels cut into the damp soil, this is the curse
Of the gypsies.
So these nomads must keep moving always,
But on this night many souls shall know pure
Terror.
For through the thickets under bush,
She waits for the canvas town to sleep, then
Will strike, to satisfy the aching within her blackened heart.
By tooth and claw strike, to be illuminated by
The beautiful face of her sister twin, whom
Weeps amongst the heavens above,
In sorrow for those she herself loved so
Much, are killed, by the darkness of her
Own sister kindred.,
Whom roars with fiendish delight, at her victims
Pain, the black jaguar a lost child of a fallen star.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN